Tired Lungs
by BasiliskRules
Summary: "The familiar dizziness threatens to overwhelm him and he briefly loses his balance, arms and legs going numb. It's like holding your breath for too long, resisting this. Concentrate on this: the Doctor doesn't have to die. *He* does. But maybe it's okay now. Maybe, he dares to hope, even this will be enough." - An introspective study of regeneration, death, and life.


**You know what they call me in the ancient legends of the fanfiction community? The Oncoming Nope.**

 **Weird experimental thing that is probably way more confusing than it has any right to be. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **oOo**

* * *

 _"How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life."_

 _._

 _._

 **(Inhale)**

He relishes how the air passes through. Everything is new, inside.

The last body had had a bad cough near the end.

 **(Exhale)**

* * *

 _"How many times have you died? How many different ways?"_

 _._

 **(Inhale)**

-He hasn't, not ever, so at first he resists. Well, at first. This would have been embarrassingly short, otherwise.

-He's not supposed to, not yet, _you can't do this-_

-The agony draws on and on for so long that he doesn't really care anymore. This once, regeneration will be a relief.

-His next self probably won't even have the decency to be afraid of heights, the bastard, he thinks as the ground rushes up to meet him. And he would rather eat his scarf than admit it, but it's been a while since he felt so scared.

-The face above him blurs and shakes like an image reflected in water, and he sees other familiar faces, no less dear. Maybe this is death, after all.

-Damn the Rani. Damn her. Really, just his luck after all this.

-There is one who only has time to think "oh". Not even enough to lament his carelessness. Then the bullets tear through him.

-The French call it "l'appel du vide". He doesn't have time to close his eyes before the impact, and oh, in a strange way that cuts through his numbness and his despair, that he knows deep down is quite unhealthy, it is beautiful.

-It's the happiest _he_ has ever felt.

-Don't you worry, Rose, I just need to die a bit, he thinks and chokes on a laugh.

-He collapses and curls up against the glass, and somebody's screaming their lungs out. It takes him a few seconds to realise through the haze of pain, that it's most probably him.

-His bow tie's on the floor and Clara is looking at him with her big sad eyes, ready to cry. He smiles reassuringly and reaches out a hand. "Hey–"

-The universe takes pity on him, and now he must accept life and death both. The familiar pain thrums in his veins. Change or die. Change or die. Despite his weariness, he isn't so sure about the second anymore.

 **(Exhale)**

* * *

.

 **(Inhale)**

He is still vain enough to be embarrassed by how little he controls this.

Other Time Lords choose age, personality, gender, dress size. Not all of them, but still. Come on, now. Give me something to work with here.

(Once, he fills the TARDIS kitchen with a divine, beauteous, nectar-of-the-gods flavour of pineapple ice-cream only a week before that body goes and gets himself killed. The next one absolutely loathes it.)

But he finally concedes that having the correct number of ears, for example, is probably more important.

 **(Exhale)**

* * *

.

 **(Inhale)**

It isn't a surefire way to cheat death. Proper, final death, that is.

The regeneration might just straight up fail. Specific weapons or poison can disable it. A Time Lord can die if killed too quickly, if injured mid-change, if there is heavy damage to the hearts or brain. A body may be just too injured to regenerate and die slowly if the damage is already too great.

So of course there are many close calls, especially with such a life.

They've all been poisoned, and stabbed, and electrocuted-

It happens again and again, and it all comes back to the same thing, the same question he asks himself, and it's surprising, amusing, and annoying in equal measure: How on earth can you still be afraid?

(Doubt had grasped your hearts for a few seconds, when they'd pointed their guns at you, _forgive me, I tried,_ and you had closed your eyes in resignation. Really? Come on, you've been shot before. You've just had worse, way worse. This isn't that bad a way to go.)

 _"Fear is like a companion. A constant companion, always there."_

(And yet you had felt your pulse speed up, your breathing quicken slightly.)

Every time. It's instinct, one can't help it.

Still.

It's around the twelfth body when he concludes that whoever said things get easier through repetition was a bloody idiot. Or, you know, they weren't talking about dying.

 **(Exhale)**

* * *

.

 **(Inhale)**

The other bit of course, is when one embraces it, or even seeks it out. Two sides of the same coin, really.

(Do you have a death wish? You've got to admit that you probably do. At least occasionally.)

It can be tiredness, despair, guilt, even curiosity for something new, different. A longing for all the lost and a desire to join them.

It _is_ usually tiredness to the point of exhaustion, though.

It doesn't last, and he usually manages to rein it in. Because there is still much, so much to see. And it's not worth the troubled look in their eyes.

 _"This planet, these people are precious to me. And I will defend them to my last breath"._

(Because no matter how you feel, you draw the line at _them_ dying.)

"What about your life? Just for once, after all this time, have you not earned the right to think about that?"

(You look away, not answering her.)

 _"It's my honour."_

 **(Exhale)**

* * *

.

 **(Inhale)**

The familiar dizziness threatens to overwhelm him and he briefly loses his balance, arms and legs going numb. It's like holding your breath for too long, resisting this.

Concentrate on this: the Doctor doesn't have to die.

 _He_ does. But maybe it's okay now. Maybe, he dares to hope, even this will be enough.

And the Doctor probably will not want to. Did _you_ , that first day?

A few seconds tick past, and the storm inside his head abates.

Well then. It _would_ be a pity.

Die, and let live.

 **(Exhale)**

* * *

 _"Daleks have destroyed a million stars. And yet, new stars are born."  
"Every time."  
"Resistance is futile."  
"Resistance to what?"  
"Life returns. Life prevails. Resistance is futile."_

 _._

 **(Inhale)**

It's true that time heals all wounds, but ugly scars remain, deep in the soul. So maybe it's for the best that his skin routinely smoothes over by the golden fire, that his entire being is renewed and changed.

The clock ticks down. In the TARDIS, on Karn, on Earth, on Gallifrey.

(Later, a man will wake up in a morgue./ A different man will sit up on a hard floor./ Thank God, he still has legs./ One will gasp awake in a panic, clutching at the ill-fitting clothes like he's drowning in them./ Another will smile, relieved./ What, what happened, where–)

.

Here, he stands and absentmindedly straightens his cuffs, as it all runs through his head.

Yes, it's worth it, he decides. Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

"Doctor… I let you go".

 **(Exhale)**

.

Somewhere, beyond all worlds, there is a timeless moment of completion. And then peace.

.

 **(Inhale)**

Here, as the fire passes, she blinks. And raw life comes rushing, roaring back, _new_ , beautiful, bewildering.

.

.

.

-the beginning-

* * *

 **Thank you for reading!**

 **Reviews are tremendously appreciated and usually responded to.**


End file.
